


Love Thy Neighbor And That Island Continent Over There

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Crack Fic, Eurovision Song Contest 2016, Gen, MI6 is basically the trashiest work place ever, MI6 squad meets Eurotrash, Q and Bond bicker like the idiot children they are, Tanner is a drunk bean, and Eve Moneypenny makes sure everyone can be considered legally drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Q, having a rifle leveled at someone’s head in the arse end of Russia does not seem like the right moment to ask who’s winning Eurovision, but then again this is the SIS and normal is hardly part of their vocabulary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Thy Neighbor And That Island Continent Over There

**Author's Note:**

> As a warning, I'm grossly out of practise and this was written in the middle of the night, so apologies in advance. I didn't see Graham Norton's commentary on this, so the reactions are based on the shit storm of the Eurotrash 2016 group chat. Enjoy!

From a purely objective standpoint MI6 is a ridiculous Service to work at by any standards, but Q has to admit the last thing he was expecting is a profound enthusiasm for the Eurovision song contest. Never mind the suggestion of a watch party. Eve Moneypenny truly is full of surprises.

“Did you get everything set up?” she asks in a hushed whisper as he passes her in the doorway to M’s office.

“Tanner helped me get the telly in last night.”

She nods at him and turns to M with a smile and a notice of a phone call and two memos. “The Prime Minister called, sir.”

Q makes a mental note to text Tanner about the beer and send an e-mail about the access codes to his department. He feels strangely like an errant schoolboy sitting under M’s scrutiny discussing his department budget. By the time he returns to his desk a new stack of files is piled on the old ones. They really should switch to fully electronic system for the environment’s sake, he muses flipping the first one open. As expected there’s a post it tacked to the back of the cover with ‘9pm, Bond’s joining’ scribbled across it with Eve’s initials added at the bottom.

If it wasn’t strange before, it certainly is now. He crumples the note and gets back to work. He’s got a high stakes mission to run at 2330 GMT, after all.

* * *

The irony of using the secret escape tunnel he’d insisted on to get out in case of an emergency to sneak his work colleagues in for a bloody telly night is not lost on Q. He almost regrets agreeing to it in the first place, particularly when he sees Eve’s unabashedly mischievous look, standing on a foot wide stone perch by the Thames like it’s nobody’s business. It is her luck that Tanner is antsy enough about being seen to shove her through the opening before Q can change his mind on the entire affair.

He hasn’t had time to put in light bulbs all the way and they have to scuffle through the damp, dark tunnel in the light of a single torch. Tanner’s beer casket bumps into the wall and the rattling of the glass bottles echoes in the small cavity like thunder. “Shh,” Q hushes and cracks open the door to his office.

“God, stop acting like we’re teenagers sneaking around forbidden grounds,” Eve says and pushes past him. He’s about to make a snide remark when she presents him with a bottle of his favourite wine.

“You do know I’m on the clock, right?”

“Oh please, someone’s always had a shot of hard liquor in this building before dawn. You’ve got three hours to dilute it if you start now.”

She wiggles the bottle at him and Q snatches it from her with a reluctant frown. She beams, kicking her heels off and making herself at home on the sofa shoved up against the right hand side wall of the room. It’s still folded out from the last time Q decided to sleep at work instead of risking the tube in the wee hours of morning. There’s a throw blanket and pillow haphazardly shoved to one end and Q tosses them off the end in a single motion.

“Where’s Bond?” he asks. “It’s about to start.”

“He’s coming through the lab,” Tanner supplies, “Eve wouldn’t let him come the other way on crutches.”

“Crutches? I thought he went in for a concussion.”

Tanner shrugs. “Apparently that sprained ankle was broken after all.”

“And he was just gonna walk on it anyway?”

Eve says, “You know how he is. He doesn’t even bother getting bullet wounds checked out.”

Tanner nods in agreement and opens two beers with his keyring. He is about to add something when the door opens to Bond leaning awkwardly on one of his crutches. For a moment he looks lost trying to balance himself with the clunky cast and Q isn’t too convinced they’ll make it through the contest without Bond dying on his couch.

In spite of this, Q asks, “Are you going to come in or what?” He corks the wine and pours himself a full mug, deciding intoxication is most certainly going to be preferable to a headache.

He turns around in just time to see Bond gingerly lower himself onto the sofa next to Eve and scoot painfully backwards. “I’m surprised you’re still alive after that stunt you pulled in Athens,” he comments and offers up his wine in a rare moment of compassion for the idiotically wounded.

“Just another day in espionage,” Bond mutters accepting the proffered drink. His smile is not as charming as he’d want it to be, pain bleeding through because the morphine is wearing off and ibuprofen doesn’t quite hold the same appeal.

“I don’t recall immortality being in your job description,” Tanner says and Q raises his bottle in a toast, mouthing ‘amen to that’. He shouldn’t be so petty, he knows. It was only a gun and a commercial motorbike this time. Well that and Bond’s leg apparently. He’s not sorry enough to apologize, but he does pull a bottle of vodka from his desk cabinet and shove it at Bond.

The agent cocks an eyebrow at him, but reaches out for the bottle anyway. “Are you  _ trying _ to kill me?”

“Oh please, as if you’ve _ ever _ been worried about synergistic effects before.”

“You’re the one who keeps insisting I’ll get myself killed drinking one of these days.”

“Will you two shut up?” Eve hisses, “I’m pretty sure that it is physically impossible to kill you and I’d know. I’ve tried. Now will you please sit still, get drunk, and watch the damn show before I personally mangle you.”

Q flushes and snaps his mouth shut, curling up on his end of the couch. Tanner passes him a beer and he sips on it in wait for the show to begin with Graham Norton delivering a last snarky line before Belgium’s act.

Eve turns up the volume and steals Bond’s wine just as the lights go on. “Well, isn’t she cute.”

“She’s only nineteen,” Q says and regrets it immediately when he sees the way Bond’s eyes light up.

He says, “And yet she looks older than you.”

“Haha, very funny. Your jokes seem to be as old, namely originating from the stone age.”

“Boys-” Eve warns.

“Oh, come on. Eurovision is not actually good enough to not interrupt.”

“They’re right,” Tanner comments and Eve shoots him a glare. “She can dance though.”

Bond nods and adds, “I wish I could get away with a suit like that.”

“Don’t take this as offence, but you’re not exactly one for subtlety and disguise to begin with, so go for it.”

“Although your thighs are certainly not that beautiful, so maybe do consider it properly first.”

Bond gives Eve an incredulous look. “Excuse me.”

She merely smiles and thrusts the wine back at him. “You know I love you, but you’ve got nothing on her.”

“Christ, quench your thirst,” Tanner laughs, “This is the first act.”

“And I don’t hate it yet, which is a promising start. It’s kidn of groovy.”

“Pass me the vodka, will you,” Q whispers to Bond, who cackles but indulges him in the bottle anyway.

“You look like a raging alcoholic with two bottles.”

He contemplates giving Bond the finger, but finds he doesn’t have any hands. “Sod off,” he grumbles and tips the vodka back.

Tanner shushes them with a wave of his hand and Eve leans over to whisper, “I think we’re getting our first ballad.”

At that Bond decides to hijack the vodka. He coughs miserably dabbing his mouth with a bandaged hand. “Wait, when’d she open her hair?”

Tanner shushes them again and Q has to repress a smile against the neck of the wine bottle. “I’ve honestly no clue,” he whispers.

“Who’s up next?”

“The Netherlands. They’ve got this disgusting hipster with a country song on how busy modern life is.” Q makes a gagging motion and rolls his eyes for how much of a personal insult the mere premise of the song is.

Q doesn’t realise he’s just admitted to researching  _ Eurovision _ until he sees the quirk of a brow on Bond’s face as he asks, “And how would you know that?”

He pretends not to hear and turns his attention to the TV, where the band has just fallen silent. What an idiotic special effect that is too, but he doesn’t dare comment on it now.

“Doesn’t he run a bar?” Eve asks and Q is glad to have made her his partner in crime of Eurovision trivia, when she continues, “I bet he’s got one of those ‘no wi-fi, talk to each other’ signs.”

Tanner snorts. “Probably has a passive aggressive smiley on it too. Just last week I had a bartender tell me their food is meant to be a wholesome experience for  _ all  _ the senses. Wish I could’ve said, ‘Mate, if I put this phone down, we’ll have fallen out with the DRM by the afternoon.’”

“Well, you know how incredibly time consuming and draining it is to keep a pub with a run down loo that makes you question your entire existence.”

The laugh that escapes Q isn’t even close to dignified and he goes to hid it by saying, “Okay, reminder to self never to piss either of you off. But can we focus, ‘cause I think Italy is up next and I really don’t wanna miss one of the few people signing in their mother tongue.”

“Oh, is she that awkward girl?”

“Francesca Michielin, yes. She can actually sing. I have to say Italy has really stepped up their game in the last few years.”

It’s the first number to impress Bond even though he’s not quite convinced by the lightshow. Still, it’s enough to keep him quiet for a few songs and Q has to count entertaining the man even in the slightest as a victory. Keeping Bond from sleeping drunkenly through a three day bender alone at home is the reason Eve must’ve invited him in the first place, not that Q can scold him for his dysfunctionality with his own sleep schedule. Eve certainly makes a point of comparing it to Bond’s much to Q’s annoyance, because they are nothing alike if one were to ask him. He’s always found Eve and Bond’s friendship a strange dance of banter and half hearted parenting Q would never have the patience for. Hell, he’s frustrated in the ten minutes spent around the agent in the lab during mission briefs and that’s without the prolonged sleep deprivation.

“Where did this guy wash up from?” Eve asks and Q returns to the competition presenting this year’s Swedish contender. “Ugh, not only is the song terrible, but it has to be

called ‘if I were sorry’? This has got to be the ultimate fuckboy anthem.”

“I mean I suppose he’s pretty,” Tanner offers.

Q sighs, “Still better than the weeabo who’s about to be next.”

“The what?” Bond asks.

“The girl from Germany is obsessed with Korean culture and it’s honestly kind of creepy.”

“Definitive serial killer vibes,” Eve says, “Not that she’s the only one. Eurovision honestly has an insane creep factor. You’d think they would learn to screen for that.”

“It’s not as though Eurovision is meant to be taken seriously,” Tanner argues. “Just remember those Russian grandmas. Or that weird Polish act the other year.” The mere thought of it sends a shiver through Q and Eve mutters a stern ‘don’t’ at Bond for even thinking of asking for context.

“I’m still disappointed Belarus didn’t make it to the finals, though.”

“I don’t think the world was ready for a naked guy with wolves.”

Bond frowns and takes another swig. “I’m starting to regret agreeing to this.”

“You’re about to regret it even more,” Eve says and tilts her head towards the telly for the start of Poland’s performance. Q doesn’t know how, but they’ve managed to drag an actual pirate on stage and Bond’s baffled look is the highlight of his night so far. Tanner’s resigned sigh is a close second. His mood improves even further when his favourite comes on.

“Why is  _ Australia _ participating in  _ Euro _ vision?” Bond asks and this time Q is the one to shush him.

Eve says, “They were a guest act last year.”

“And?”

“I suppose they kinda decided to stick around.”

“Which, considering the songs they’ve submitted, is a great choice,” Q says.

“Well, she _ can sing _ and the performance is the best so far.”

“I’m still rooting for Russia,” Tanner says.

“Traitor.”

“Boys, please. We all know France is taking this one.”

“The three of you really have no life,” Bond says and yawns. He’s slapped from both sides and left wondering what the hell he’s even doing here. He considers trading places with Tanner to get drunk on his own in the corner, maybe even simply nicking a bottle a making a run for it. But then there is something undeniably hilarious about the way Eve keeps trashing everyone’s outfits -  _ to be fair I would’ve chopped more than just the feather tips off that thing _ \- and Q groans at the special effects choices -  _ I mean will we ever stop dropping the lights off for unnecessary dramatic effect _ . He wouldn’t go as far as to say he’s having fun, but it beats being cuffed to the bed in medical.

He doesn’t take part in the debate over Spain’s choice to have an English song compete, nor does he ask about the mentions of a tiger from the previous year. Instead he accepts a beer from Tanner and lets himself slip further down the sofa while Q and Eve argue happily about limited vocal ranges.

The two fall silent as soon as the Latvian number starts and Bond is the first one to speak. “Alright, I’ll admit this is art.”

Q has to agree. “It’s like watching theatre. How is there so much emotion packed into this?”

“I’m also really into this whole trousers and dress combo,” Eve says.

Bond hums absentmindedly and grudgingly says, “I hate to say I might’ve found myself a favourite despite hating this entire competition.”

“And I might have to change my stance on Russia.”

“Pfft, you would have to do that anyway,” Q says. They manage to miss an entire song bickering, though none of them escape the hell of Georgia’s performance.

“My eyes are bleeding from these cuts,” Q complains and digs the heels of his palms into his face.

“Sure you’re not just having a seizure?”

“Can we please change the channel for a moment?” Bond bites out, looking like he’s about to throw up and suddenly the thought of socialising with a concussion is unbearable. He’s so relieved by the sweet voice of Austrian Zoe, he considers spending actual money on voting for her, though the song is far too sappy for his tastes. It’s only Eurovision, Bond reminds himself.

By the time the UK duo finally gets on stage he’s in good enough spirits to ask: “Is another boyband really what we needed?”

“This might be the first one that consists of actual clones,” Tanner says earns himself an involuntary laugh from Eve.

“I don’t know if it’d be weirder for them to have practised being this in sync or just doing it naturally.”

Bond and Q simultaneously say, “Practise,” and Tanner nearly spits his beer out.

“Well look who’s talking.”

Q glares at him and crosses his arms over his chest like a sullen child. No need to maintain professionalism with Tanner when they’ve shared a nap on the same office floor. Bond seems far more amused than annoyed, which only serves to piss him off further and he shoves and elbow into Bond’s side.

Eve says, “Okay, now you two are just acting like an old, married couple on purpose.”

“For the record I’d rather die bleeding out on the office floor than marry Bond. Which also seems like the most probable scenario for anyone getting marrying him.”

“Wow, rude.”

“I’m not the one with a track record and two bruised ribs from my last fling with a gun for hire.”

It’s Tanner’s turn to break them up with a sardonic ‘children please’ that has Q huff testily. Eve is the one to re-establish the peace by announcing the last act of the night.

“They really went in for the sex appeal with that body,” she says, “And she sure loves caressing her hips.”

“I would too, if I was wearing that on international television,” Tanner remarks. Bond hums in agreement and Eve wrinkles her nose.

“Would you two please conceal your awkward boners. And could we get an explanation as to why there are  _ bagpipes _ playing in the background.”

“I’d still argue it’s a better addition than artistic silence in the middle of the song,” Q argues. “Really not feeling the love wave with this one though. I’ll have to say nay.”

Bond groans, “Oh God, we’re not actually going to start making Eurovision jokes now, are we?”

“You have to give it at least a few weeks.”

“If I hear any of these songs play in the office, I’m quitting,” Tanner says and Q can’t quite tell if he’s serious or not. The service has certainly seen more ridiculous resignations.

Thinking of it now, he’ll have to implement a radio ban in R&D starting Monday morning.

He sinks down into the sofa with a yawn and pulls the blanket over himself for the halftime show. Perhaps he can get a short nap in before he’s expected down in the mission control centre. He’s vaguely aware of slumping sideways before dozing off, but if he abuses Bond’s shoulder as a pillow this once, he can’t be arsed to care.

* * *

That they are all insane to some degree should be obvious, but it seems the double-oh agents never lose their capacity to surprise him. To Q, having a rifle leveled at someone’s head in the arse end of Russia does not seem like the right moment to ask who’s winning Eurovision, and so he’s forced to say, “Excuse me?” in an embarrassingly dumbfounded voice when 003 decides to ask him exactly that anyway.

“The score. I only made it to France’s performance at the hotel and it seemed like a strong contender to me.”

Q would be lying if he said he didn’t have the livestream muted and up on the wall, so he simply says, “Australia is in the lead right now. The live performance was much better than anyone expected.”

“Huh, I have to watch that later then.”

There’s a moment of silence and then the telltale  _ whoosh _ of a silenced gun going off.

“Okay, I’ve got an opening now. Are you in their system yet?”

“Just about. While you’re at it, I also recommend taking a look at Croatia’s Lighthouse.”

Q can’t actually tell, but he’s willing to bet money that he can hear q grin in 003’s voice when he says, “Duly noted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations to Jamala for winning and a shoutout to Australia and France for making such great songs. I'm sorry not to have incorporated dear Amir in better in this, because that music video killed me with feels.
> 
> Thank you for reading. You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com :)


End file.
